


Stockholm

by VirtualElectr8



Series: Of Regrets and Understanding. [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amputation, Drug Use, Gore, Graphic Description, Imprisonment, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, Psychosis, non-con, psychotic behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VirtualElectr8/pseuds/VirtualElectr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you just want to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stockholm

The flickering of the lights is what causes you to stir. Your head hurts so badly that you swear your nerves are on fire. You do not know if your obscured, blurry vision is due to your incredible drowsiness, or the fact that your optical nerves feel as though they are melting - which may be why your brain seems to throb. You cannot feel every part of your body, but you can still guarantee that every inch of you hurts. There is a very odd feeling in your arms right now; like they are heavy, yet not there at all. To gain full recognition of their situation, you go ahead and move them. As soon as the impulse to move carries through the neurones surrounding your shoulder, you feel a familiar burning. Your arms are, of course, attached. They are just numb. The movement continues down them now, reviving your forearms, your wrists, your hands, thumbs, fingers, and in that instance you make an attempt of bringing them down to your face, to brush the sleepiness away. Instead, you are met with restriction, and the rattling of chains.

... Wait, what?

Alarm bells sound in your head, and you instantly liven up as your body takes over, throwing itself into 'flight or fight' mode. You blink desperately, trying to wipe the hazy fog from your lenses as you start your hopeless struggle, pulling your arms this way and that, fighting through the awful tingling which has not yet ceased. You try to call out, try to scream, but you cannot. Your desire to open your mouth, however, has you feeling another force, this time on your lips. It is like they are trying to swim through slime, trying to break free for air to no avail, as the substance they fight is particularly sticky. Though, the material is not at all foreign. In fact, it happens to remind you of the back side of tape.

The door creaks open. You cease struggling, and just stare.

"...Ah. You're awake." 

Blank eyes. Small horns. Red sweater. Kankri.   
You feel your eyebrows rise, prying your tired eyes open as you release a muffled chirr of relief. You're safe! He's heard your struggles, he's come to rescue you, you're going to get out and go home and never complain about your lusus' whining again, you're going to be so grateful, you'll fully listen to every speech he gives, you wont take anyone for granted again, you wont hurt anybody, you-

"I knew I injected too much into you. I didn't expect you to be under for so long. I'm sorry. I hope you can understand, though." 

No. What you do, all you do for that matter, is you stop. Injected? Understand? What? You don't understand anything right now, let alone what he requests you to. You make a muffled, high pitched sound of confusion, as his face instantly lightens, head tilting in appreciation as the smallest smile creeps upon his lips. He's looking at you like nobody else ever has; as though he is in admiration of you. It is the only thing you have ever wanted, and yet it does nothing but concern you.

"I saw you talking to Mituna yesterday," he begins, his tone undetectable; expression unreadable, but it seems as though he is keeping some sort of anger underwraps. Why? "You too are... definitely growing closer, hm?" 

What?  
No, not at all. You harass him. He hates you. In fact, you scare him. All you want is your friend back, though you know all too well that will never happen. 

"... He's going to take you from me one day." 

You freeze, feeling your body grow rigid. What? What had he just said? Was this really Kankri? Your feelings of gratitude have all but left during this one-sided conversation, and have rapidly been replaced with ones of an ever-growing fear. You want him to turn around and leave, to turn the lights off and let you rot in here. The thought of being left to die alone in the dark makes you feel more secure than being in the Cancer's presence right now. There had been times. Dark, dark times in your life. During those times, you'd considering ending everything. You're not too sure how well that would work, though. Can you die once you're dead? Either way, you had always deemed it worth a try. During those times, two things would happen; you would either chicken out, or an unsuspecting, yet concerned, Kankri Vantas would come to your in aid, in the form of walls and walls of text, hoping you're okay, trailing off into different matters, becoming lost as time went on. His ramblings were enough to take your mind from the task at hand, to say the least. You had always been so grateful. But now... Now, you found yourself wishing for nothing more than for him to abandon you. For the first time, his aura had you feeling queasy and increasingly afraid. 

His eyes survey you, their hold unnerving, yet so disarming all at once. You find yourself lost in their translation, and unsure of what you are meant to be feeling. Before you can decide, he makes a sudden turn to the table across the room which you have only just noticed, and his action makes you flinch. If you have been blinking, it must have been rapidly and not at all frequently. Either that, or your instincts to protect yourself have you keeping a literal eye on him. Though your vision is no longer hazy, to your surprise, you discover that everything appears to be moving as if slowed down. It concerns you greatly, of course, but the clinking and clanging coming from the worktop Kankri is lingering at concerns you much more. 

"But, I suppose we wont have to worry about that for much longer. Right, Cronus?" 

He turns to you, and all the moisture from your mouth mysteriously disappears. You feel your stomach churn sickeningly, and you wonder if it's trying to scrunch itself up in order to hide from the sight before you. There he stands, just before you, wielding a hacksaw and a blowtorch. You now, only now, begin to question your reality, and hope to any possible God in every universe in existence that this is a dream. But you know better than to believe such things, even now, because you actually feel the sweat fleeing your body, and hear the chains which suspend your arms rattle due to your shaking. He smiles. You taste vomit in the back of your throat.

"After all. You can't leave me if you can't use your legs."

Before you know it, he's on his knees, and dragging your leg out from under you. You cannot scream. You cannot break the shackles. You cannot stand, and you are trying to kick, but one of your legs is stuck beneath your body, and he has extended the other completely, taking your ability away. Everything is a blur. Your head is swimming, yet you still feel it. His words, warning you to hold still so that he doesn't make too much of a mess, burn you and your dignity to no avail. But it is nothing compared to the sensation, or lack there of, in your leg.You can feel it. You can feel everything. The saw's jagged teeth tear at your jeans, snagging the material in a way that makes your lips curl in. Your skin is devoured; split open messily just below your knee cap, and there is only so much thick, purple liquid that can seep out before you start seeing the thick layers of fat deeper within. You suppose the ragged, rough humming you are making is the equivalent to a scream, and in some ways you are grateful for the tape, because without it, you're sure you would have lost your voice already. He's still smiling, his sickeningly sweet grin fixed on your mutilated limb, and you have to scrunch your eyes shut to keep from vomiting up every last molecule within your body, which would only slam against your sealed lips and sizzle away at your oesophagus, anyway. You slam your head against the wall in protest, continuing to scream, if you can even call it that. You actually feel your tendons snap. The nerves burn as though filled with fire, and each stride the blade takes into your muscle tissue, back and forth, back and forth, feels like acid. The entire tissue aches in ways which are utterly unfathomable, and then it grows cold, sending a sickening shockwave of numbness through your entire body. You want it to stay, but it only lasts a second, and then you are left to face your fate once again.

You feel the bone being ground up, like charcoal spat from a seething fire. It is obvious the saw cannot properly handle the density, as though you refuse to look, you can feel its sickening uneasiness, every wobble of its thin metal feeling like a punch in the gut. What is worse, however, is that sweet, reliable, comforting Kankri Vantas, positively refuses to give up, putting his all into destroying your limb all the way through. You can feel yourself trying to block everything out, but your pan is refusing to let you, absolutely determined to make you hear to wet slop of the bottom half of your leg against the stony ground, experience the cold air on the streaks of translucent purple tears which flaw your pale face, and feel your blood pour out endlessly. You have no escape from the scent of your own flesh as it burns, both feeling and hearing it bubble against the blue flame he cauterises you with. You scream, but your throat is so dry now that it hurts, and it keeps cutting off in protest. 

It hurts. You hurt. Yet you cannot be completely sure of that, as you think maybe you just naturally expect yourself to hurt, and are in fact utterly numb. Are you even existing right now? Are you still contained in your body? It feels as though you have left, and the slowed surrounds are so delayed you struggle to determine if they are going backwards or forwards in time. Your leg hurts, but at the same time is no better than dead. It pains you to think you will never walk again. What does not hurt you, however, is the slip of a cannula needle pushing deep into your elbow. You are not aware of the thick, concentrated green ooze which has been pooling into you for the last minute and a half. You are hardly aware of Kankri as he speaks to you, in fact. 

"Shall we leave it here for today? I understand, it's a tall ask. But we'll have so much fun together, Cronus. I've so many things I've always wanted to talk to you about. In fact, I even documented them on the wall, so I don't forget!" 

His words are slurred to you. They tingle your ears, and singe the nerves which are yet to cool from their torture, but you cannot help yourself. You wonder if a cat is not the only thing curiosity has killed in its time. You struggle, but fight to raise your drowsy head to the wall behind you. It is wider than you first imagined, and yet you cannot see one millimetre of it. The entire wall is. Just. Papers. Each sheet is full, full of the smallest writing, as though Kankri had really struggled to fit even half of what he had planned to discuss with you on single sides. Amongst the mess of essays and lectures sits many drawings, all very detailed and precise. They are you. From different profiles. Many of the poses he has you in show you from behind, or talking to someone who he has not included in his sketches. Others display you and him, in either typical scenarios you find happy couples in movies, such as cooking together, or feeding one another; that, or in the most repulsive sexual positions - many which require a decent amount of flexibility, and even more which contain some sort of bondage. There is one thing, however, which stands out even more than his sick fantasies:   
There is not one imagine in which you have legs.   
In some, you are even missing your hands.

Your stomach rolls itself again, and this time, bile works its way right up, storing itself in your mouth, seeping as much as it can between your lips and trapping itself, running ugly shivers up and down your frame. You are scared to swallow it, as you know it will only come back up.  
"...Let's leave it here for the night, hm? We can start all over again tomorrow!" He chirps delightedly, and his excitement makes you want to cry even harder than you already have. "Just imagine it, Cronus," Kankri continues, now on his feet and returning his tools to the table in which he found them. He wanders to the door slowly, a blissful smile on his gentle face. "You wont need anyone else. Only me. Me, to do everything for you. To assist you in moving, to cook for you, to feed you, change you, clean you.. Isn't it fantastic?" He giggles happily, like a pleased little child, looking over at you adoringly as he slips outside the frame of the room, finger on the light switch.   
"I can't wait. We'll resume first thing in the morning, bright and early! I'm doing this for you, Cronus. You'll be better off with me... I love you, you know?"   
They are words which you have always wanted somebody to say to you, and now, you find yourself actively willing them away, fighting to keep them out of your ears, but they echo in your head like nobody's business, and you sob. 

"Sleep well, love," Kankri finishes, and his calm face slinks out the door. A click soon follows, and the room falls into darkness, dragging you down with it. You want to weep, but you cannot. You cannot do anything. Your inability to even fathom the situation you find to be ridiculous, but there is no way a troll so understanding, so overly-considerate of the feelings of those around him, could have truly locked you in what you presume to be a basement, and amputated you. But you have to fathom it. You have to accept this. Because without that leg, the one which sits before you on the floor, lifeless and drained, you are not about to be going anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> I SHOULDN'T BE ALLOWED TO WRITE I AM S O SORRY   
> My boyfriend and I have been roleplaying kancro wherein Kankri has psychotic tendencies, and this bloomed my mind.   
> Im so, so very sorry.


End file.
